


let the soft animal of your body love what it loves

by Metronomeblue



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (a little bit), (mildly), (well. Healthier.), Aftercare, Body Worship, Boot Worship, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Warming, Collars, Comfort No Hurt, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Facial Shaving, Feeblemind, Feeblemind Spell, Genital Torture, Hand Feeding, Healthy Relationships, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, I wish there was a good term for that but with other genders because that’s what’s going on here, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Night Terrors, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Past Rape/Non-con, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Rape Recovery, Ripley is Her Own Warning, Roleplay, Self-Harm, Service Submission, Sexual Roleplay, Shaving, Shoes, Submission, There’s just so much going on here I’m not sure how it all happened, Trust, Trust Kink, Warning: Anna Ripley, and ain’t that the truth, mostly comfort because the piece that inspired this takes care of the hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 06:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21157214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: “I think- it’s like when anything bad happens,” Pike says, not taking her eyes off of Percy, soft and unguarded in a way they haven’t ever seen him before. “When you lose a battle, or you make a mistake. You have to- you have to go back to get better. You have to do it again, so you’re not afraid anymore.”Vex and Percy decide to rewrite bad memories





	let the soft animal of your body love what it loves

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [comprehension, and lack thereof](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12495752) by [sparxwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites). 

> You do not have to walk on your knees  
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
love what it loves.  
-Mary Oliver, Wild Geese
> 
> Inspired by several different fics by sparxwrites but most especially  this one , to which I was like “oh I’ll write like a 1500 word follow-up it’ll be cute” and this absolute madness ensued. I apologize profusely. 
> 
> I wrote this over the course of like four days because I’m a soft bitch. 
> 
> More detailed trigger warnings in the end note just in case

It’s unsettling at first, seeing his eyes go wide and vacant and afraid. It makes her feel cold. Percy shouldn’t be- he shouldn’t _ever_ look afraid with her. She hates it. She almost tells Pike to cast Greater Restoration and bring him back, right then and there. His eyes are so clouded, and his whole body freezes, as if losing his mind is a physical pain to him. But then he settles back on his knees, blinks a little, and his face clears. Vex reaches out a hand and he nudges towards her, leading with his nose like a sweet animal, a dog or a young kitten. He presses his face into her palm, sniffling a little, and she strokes his hair away from his face. Gently, she thinks. _Gently_. Pike looks between them both, looking very worried, and Keyleth’s face is deep in a frown.

“Are you sure about this, Vex?” Keyleth asks, and Vex pretends not to hear the naked judgement in her voice. Percy shuffles forward a few steps, near-crawling, to settle at her feet. Vex looks down at him, and he looks up at her with a sort of vacant trust. As if he feels safe, or perhaps he just doesn’t know better. She cards her fingers through his hair again, and he sighs happily. His eyes close, like a cat’s, and he rubs his face into her hand.

“I’m sure,” she says softly. There’s something... gratifying about his trust in her. Not only the way he settles into her touch, the way he came to her as easily as breathing, but the fact that he’d let her do this in the first place. She remembers the way he’d choked and whimpered under Ripley, the way he’d crawled to her after, broken and afraid, and pressed his bruising, ruined face to the bars. She remembers the shame on his face when they’d healed him. She remembers the way he wouldn’t look at her for weeks, locked himself in his workshop, refused to do anything but exchange a few awful, pained words through the door. She looks up at Keyleth. “He needs it. I- _I_ need it.” Admitting it is odd, and she sees Keyleth’s face fall. She knows it’s not what Keyleth wants, it’s not what Keyleth would do, had it been Vax in that dungeon, but Vex doesn’t live her life by what Keyleth would do.

“Wouldn’t it just hurt him more?” Keyleth asks, softly, as if Percy can hear them. He can’t. He can’t even understand a word they’re saying. Vex continues to pet him, absentmindedly, and he continues to rest by her feet, content.

“I think- it’s like when anything bad happens,” Pike says, not taking her eyes off of Percy, soft and unguarded in a way they haven’t ever seen him before. “When you lose a battle, or you make a mistake. You have to- you have to go back to get better. You have to do it again, so you’re not afraid anymore.” Keyleth follows her gaze, still frowning. Vex lets her hand slip beneath Percy’s chin, lifts it just a little. He lets her, looking up at her with a faint eagerness to please, and she smiles back.

“He would have said no,” Vex says, still looking into Percy’s unfocused, dazed eyes. “If he hadn’t wanted it, he would have said no and I would have listened, Keyleth. But we both- we have to get past this.”

“And this is the only way?” She asks, sounding more than a little pained.

“Yes,” Vex replies, looking back at her. “It is, for us.” Keyleth studies her face, and something there causes her to nod, to turn away. Pike slips a hand into hers, and begins to lead her away.

“Just call,” she says gently, shooting a soft look at Percy. “If you need- if he needs me to-“

“I will,” Vex swears, and she means it. “The moment it’s necessary.” Pike nods, turns away. “Pike? Keyleth?” They turn back, a different look on each of their faces. Hope on Keyleth’s, faint concern on Pike’s. “Thank you. Both of you. I- I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to,” Keyleth says, finally. “I don’t understand it, really, but... if it’s what you need, I’m happy to help.” Pike nods.

When the door is closed, when Vex can’t hear them anymore, she sinks down to crouch beside Percy.

“There we are, darling,” she murmurs, easing his glasses off. He whimpers, faintly, and she pauses. “You asked me to take them off, Percy,” she entreats him. He whines, high, like a kicked dog. It hurts. “I don’t- I wish there was a way we could turn this off and on,” she mutters, slowly sliding his glasses back onto his nose. “Then you could make that decision.” He leans forward again, rests his forehead in her hand as if grateful, and her heart aches. “If that’s what you want, darling.” She reaches for his shirt, undoes the first button, the next, the next- she hits about halfway down his chest before he balks, confused. She remembers Ripley and the scalpel, and she pauses.

“Hush,” she murmurs, and rubs one hand on his shoulder. “It won’t hurt, lovely. I won’t hurt you.” He blinks, uncomprehending, and she kisses the tip of his nose before continuing to undo his shirt. “You know, it’s a bit of a shame you can’t understand me, Percival. You won’t get to hear me tell you what a sweet, obedient pet you are.” One sleeve at a time, she pulls his shirt gently from his shoulders, lets it pool around his kneeling form in a swath of white. He presses closer to the warmth of her hands as she moves them to his waist. He’s so sweet like this, really. “You won’t be able to understand me when I tell you what a good boy you’ve been for me,” Vex says, undoing each button down the front of his trousers, the dark tug in the pit of her stomach growing stronger. “You won’t know when I tell you how good you feel.” She pulls apart the folds of fabric, sees the slight rise of his cock against the rough linen of his drawers. “Oh, darling,” she coos, and he blinks dumbly back at her. “You really are too good to me, pet,” she kisses him on the cheek, as a reward, and he hums a little, happily.

“Stand up, pet,” she tells him, even though he can’t truly listen. She stands herself, tugs at his hand. He tries, clumsily, and stumbles, disoriented. She tries again, and he manages it, standing and swaying a little, hunched forward around his hands where they’re drawn up to his chest. “There we are, darling,” she says, stroking a hand down his bared spine. She tugs his trousers to the ground, leaving him in his drawers and an undershirt, and she marvels, for a moment, that he can seem so much smaller, so much more innocent. Vex pulls gently at the hem of his shirt, and he looks at her, uncomprehending. She tugs again, and his arms lift confusedly. Once the shirt is off, undoing his drawers is easy. He only makes a noise of protest once, and it’s soothed quickly with a gentle touch and a murmured word of love and care.

Then he’s bare before her, all scarred skin and doe eyes, and Vex feels a surge of deep, fierce protectiveness. He looks so _small_. He’s not, she knows, but something about his open, lost face makes him seem as young as he truly is. She cups his face in one hand, kisses him on the lips. He presses back, clumsy but earnest, and she pushes him gently to his knees with a hand on his shoulder.

“There we go, pet,” she says, smiling. “Would you like to keep me company?” He strains forward a little, making a noise like distress and hope. She knows he can’t really understand, knows all he gets is inflection, tone, the reading of feelings. Nevertheless, it makes her feel better to ask. “Alright, lovely,” she whispers, running a hand through his hair. “Let me find your collar.”

This was something else she and Percy had discussed. They wanted it to be different. He had suggested being her servant, the way Ripley had made him her tool. The suggestion had warmed her, in a way, but the thought of him on his knees for her, being flogged, being bound and hurt as Percy often liked to be hurt, only without the ability to understand it, to beg for it, to say no... it ached in her chest. For later, she thought. A lovely little scene with him as her devoted servant and she his merciful, dedicated Baroness. But not like this. She could still hear his whimpers and pained, high grunts as Ripley beat him, could still see the softness of his cock between his legs, the way he had cried, confused, as she hurt him. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to cower, to shield himself from her blows and make heartbreaking sounds of betrayal. There was no satisfaction in that. Nothing that made her stomach clench, her mouth dry. The thought of it just made her sad.

Vex, softly, had asked if he wouldn’t rather be her sweet pet. Percy’s face had said _yes_, his voice had unconvincingly said _no_, and then _maybe_, and then, a little hoarse, as Vex felt him shift uncomfortably, _yes_. He had gone pink when she suggested it, but unlike most suggestions she made, this was one she was serious about. Feebleminded and hurt, Percy had crept to her. He had tugged, gently, on her hand, touched her face with care. He had pressed his whole body to the bars at her feet and keened softly until she let him hold her. There was something to be said for that. For instinct, for trust, for his deep, very quietly spoken love for her. She refused to let it languish under mistreatment. “If you’re to be helpless at my feet,” she had told him, serious and quiet. “I want to cherish it. I want to be kind to you. I want...” and here she trailed off, looking away enough that Percy had to turn her face back to him with a gentle hand. “I want you to know how much I treasure you, darling. I don’t... I don’t want to be anything like her.” His face is soft, and there’s something like faint disbelief in his face when she says she treasures him. Something like stifled want, and she aches to soothe it. To undo all the ways he’s held himself back, to run her greedy little half-elf hands all over him until he has no choice but to believe she loves him.

“You’re nothing like Anna,” he’d said, quietly but firmly. “And you wouldn’t be even if you pretended to.”

“Then let me _love_ you, Percy. You’re going to be all mine for a month,” she teased him, though it was weak compared to her usual teasing, leaning her head on his shoulder. “At least let me enjoy you.”

“There’s no letting. You could do anything to me. Anything.” He lowered his head to look her in the eye, a faint hint of a grin on his mouth. “I will be powerless against you, my dear.”

“Then I will be kind, pet,” she had said, smiling at the thick, hungry want in his eyes. “And you will sleep at my feet.” She reached up, cupped his cheek for a moment before her hand went down, down, down between his legs to where his cock was rising, hardening. “And I’ll feed you from my hand, won’t I?”

“Vex-“

“Ah-ah.” Her voice was light, but that tone brooked no argument from him. He softened, bending to her will, and Vex heard a faint whimper. “What should you call me, hm? While you still have a voice?”

“My lady,” he said hoarsely, but his eyes were soft. There was so much love in his face she wondered how she had ever missed it. “Mistress.” She rubbed a thumb over the head of his cock, and he whined. “Lady Vex’ahlia-“

“I am your Lady,” she said fondly, more softly. Percy smiled, just as tender, at the reminder. “Does it suit me?”

“You are unparalleled, my lady,” he says, gasping, so simply she knows it’s true- or at the very least he believes it to be- and there’s too much warmth for her to be wary about what they intend to do. She’s too full of love.

She intends to make him feel it. To let him exist as a dizzy, languid lapdog, always at her ankles, in her arms, at the foot of her bed. She intends to overwrite Ripley, to give him a better service, a softer utility.

The collar is soft- made of luxurious, deep doeskin leather lined with velvet. It’s light, but not negligible, and when she first places it around Percy’s throat he makes a faint noise of ragged need, and she can see his cock bob, dripping wetly on the floor. “There, pet,” she says, breathless at the sight. She ties the leash to it, and he makes a low noise like a groan. “Perfect.”

She leads him about a few times, lets him get the hang of crawling at her pace, lets him become accustomed to the soft pressure at his throat, the gentle tug of her hand on his leash. His knees are rubbed raw by the carpet, red with cold by the evening, and she coos a little, rubs them with balm and lets him rest. At dinner she feeds him fruit and soft bread, juice dripping from her fingers and crumbs lingering. “Would you like to clean up, pet?” She asks, and though there’s a moment of confusion, he understands after she offers her empty fingers. His tongue is hot and wet and soft, and she groans a little herself as he laps the taste of mountain berries and breadcrust from her calloused fingers. He’s eager, and for the first time in a long time he finishes a meal. She strokes a clean finger down a long scar arcing from his hairline to his chin, and he tilts his head into her touch even as his tongue works, dexterous and hungry, between her fingers.

After dinner she puts him to rest. She changes into a long, soft robe, light for sleeping, and perches on a couch thin enough for only one person to fit comfortably. He lies on his side, all curled up, face pressed into the soft rug below her as she reads. He let her take his glasses off before he lay down, conceding only in the face of soft exhaustion. He hums, almost purring, and buries his nose in its plush, thick softness. She’s reading one of his books, though he can’t really tell, and it helps calm the faint stirs of worry still lingering in her chest. Her hand can just reach past the base of the couch to his head, and she strokes through his hair absentmindedly. The sensation eventually lulls him to sleep. For an hour or two it’s lovely, warmth and serenity, but then Vex feels him shake, feels his whole body move, hears the faint click of his vocal cords failing to work the way he wants them to. He’d be screaming out words if he could, but all he can manage are strangled, terrified noises, awful and half-restrained.

“_Darling_,” she says, thick with sympathy, and kneels beside him on the rug. When he comes to, her hands are on his shoulders, and he stares up at her, making horrible pained noises like a trapped rabbit, eyes all too wide. He scrabbles at her for a moment before resting his hands out in the air, as if remembering he isn’t to touch without permission. “It’s alright, pet,” she tells him, opening her arms for him to nestle closer. “I’m here. I’m here, lovely.” He feels small, curled into her. Feels like a frightened animal, all spine and shiver and bite. She can feel his tears on her dress, and she feels her heart drop. “I’m so sorry, darling.”

He doesn’t respond- can’t- and she can only hold him, hushing him, until they fall asleep curled into a knot on the rug by the fire. Trinket shuffles in from the other room at some point, settles down beside them and offers Percy his great, soft side to lean on. Percy presses in, a shaking bundle of unspeakable feeling. Trinket huffs protectively and licks a stripe up the face of his mistress’ lover. Vex pets them both, and they both settle. It feels strangely cathartic, after that. The worry disappears. Percy is less skittish, the loss of his intellect softened by the knowledge that Vex is there.

The next morning Vex lets Trinket out to hunt, tells him to come back after dusk. She settles in at the desk in the corner. “Come along, pet,” she says, offering Percy an open hand. “I’d like you to do something for me.” He crawls obligingly to her side, uncertain of the words she’s saying, but understanding that she could only be calling him. “Here, darling,” she says, patting her thigh under the desk. He crawls towards her first, and she has to hush and redirect him, pull him under from the other side so he can kneel, soft-eyed, between her knees. She continues to pet him, to stroke his hair and offer him gentle words. He presses his head into her knee as she writes, face warm and soft through her skirts. She tries not to let it get farther, tries to restrain the memory of doing the same to Percy one night, tries to forget the hot rush of arousal as she held his cock in her mouth, teasing, for hours. She tries not to think of the sounds he made, the edge of a moan in his voice as he tried to make notes on a particular design, his panting, ragged breathing as she sucked on the soft, tender head of him. She doesn’t know what Percy is thinking, as he sits placid and content before her, breathing in the scent of silk and the faint trace of her arousal on the air.

He shifts, looking up at her curiously as she adjusts her legs under his head. “It’s nothing, pet,” she says, smiling reassuringly at him. He noses toward her core, and she almost chokes. “Percy-“ she begins, but he presses his face up to the split of her, fine silk growing tight around his cheeks. “Percy,” she almost laughs, “it’s so early! Don’t you want to wait a little before we try anything-“ his nose brushes her clit and she exhales hard, arousal mounting. “Oh, darling,” she sighs, “the things you do to me.” But she reaches down, hitches her skirts up, reveals herself to him in full. She can see the brief flash of almost-memory, Ripley pulling her skirts up to ride him, the way she’d been unkind and uncaring, the way she’d hurt him for not coming inside her. He draws back, watching her a little warily as she bares her folds, presses a hand against herself in the cold air.

She doesn’t ask anything more of him at first. Just lets him sit, transfixed, as she works herself to dripping, tender fullness, slick and soft with arousal. She lets out a moan, almost involuntary, and he sighs, pressing his face into her thigh.

“It’s alright, pet,” she says, gasps. “I’m not going to force you.” But he doesn’t need to be forced. He looks up at her, as close to her Percy, full in his mind, as he’s been since they began, and kisses the soft, tender skin of her inner thigh. And then he moves, lapping at her hand until she moves it, burying his tongue in her, swallowing down whatever slickness she can give.

His face presses into her lovingly, his hands resting lightly on the legs of the chair. “Percy,” she moans, breathless as he tries to please her. “Oh, darling, you’re so good to me.” There’s something about it that feels like worship, like service, like something freely given. There’s no hesitation, no feeling of reluctance. It’s the same as the arrows he’s given her, the broom, the title. Offered, without expectation. He rocks forward and back, and she catches the faint murmurs of his grunts and groans buried in her core, his cock sliding painfully, wetly, against the smooth wooden floor as he pleases her.

“Hush, pet,” she says, feeling a buzz begin to gather in her stomach. “Wait a moment and I’ll… return the favor.” She has to pause, has to cut her own words with a long, low moan as the wash of climax ripples through her, gentle and heavy, like liquid gold in her veins. He continues to lap at her slit, to work his tongue into her, but she pulls him back, gently, with both hands. “You’ve been very good, darling,” she tells him, hoping he’ll understand in retrospect, once the charm is lifted. “So good to me. You deserve a reward, don’t you?” She pulls her skirts back down, and pushes back her chair to stand over him. He’s on all fours, now that the chair is gone, lowered so there’s some pressure on his cock, so he has something to rut against. He whines, trying not to move, trying to fight his instinct to just thrust at the floor, to force himself into a painful orgasm. His hips shudder, even as she watches, aborted, sharp little thrusts that drive his flushed, weeping tip against the boards. Vex hooks a finger under his collar and leads him, keening and shaky, to her room.

He looks confused, overcome by the pressure of heat in his body, and her tugging him away can’t help. She lets him stop in front of the mirror there, arranges his body so he’s kneeling, legs spread, fat, flushed cock jutting from his hips. His thighs are all wet from the amount of fluid dripping from his tip, and Vex tugs his hands behind him to keep him from touching it. He just whines, grunts, groans like a desperate animal. He thrusts, helplessly, into the air, sobbing, and Vex has to tilt his head up so he can see the picture he makes. He keeps rutting against nothingness, jerking and fussing until Vex presses one leg up to the very crux of his thighs. She can feel the warm, soft heat of his balls against her calf, can feel the damp filth of his desperation staining her stockings where his shaft rubs against them. Finally offered a tool, even one as humiliating as this, he fucks himself up against her, panting, keening as she encourages him, praises him, calls him her beautiful pet, calls him her beloved. When she can feel him begin to lose himself she pulls back, and he cries out.

She presses her foot down over the tip of his cock, pinning it to the rough wood of the floor, and he cries out, muscles spasming as he comes. She doesn’t let up, knows from experience how much pain Percy can take- how much he _loves_ to take- and only lifts her foot when his seed has spilled into a small, wet, white puddle under her fine shoe. He sobs a little, spent, and pushes his face into her skirt once more. She pulls the stool from the vanity out, examines his clouded eyes, and lifts her foot. Her ankle rests at a perfect height on the stool, foot tilted enough that the whole sole is exposed. “Clean up your mess, pet,” she says, and he begins to lap his own come from her slipper. Even with his intelligence gone, he looks humiliated and tired, but Vex can see his cock steadily beginning to swell again with arousal. When her shoe is spit-slick and shining, she leans down to kiss each corner of his mouth and press him to her chest in a quick hug. “Perfect,” she whispers. “You did perfectly, Percy.” She doesn’t intend to make a habit of hurting him like this in the next month, not often and not much at all if she can help it. He’s too sweet, too pliable for that. She’ll save it for later. This part of Percy, the trusting, instinctual piece of him that loves her so much, doesn’t have the fortitude to handle it, however much he might love the feeling.

They’re secreted away, happily, cozy and safe in a small cottage Percy’s parents used to sneak away to when they needed a break. It’s still finely furnished, and Vex feels a pang of strange, sad happiness in donning his mother’s gowns. The first time he sees her in one of them, a shimmering sky blue, he crawls to her, rises to kneel and kisses her thighs through the silk. She strokes his hair. After a moment, she plucks his leash from the ground, calls him pet, and he arches his neck to let her hook it into his collar. She brings him to a mirror, full-length, and shows him what they look like, the pair of them. He’s beautiful, she thinks, she says, all that agility and strength tamed by the barest thread of her control, kneeling sweetly at her feet. Owned. He looks at himself, naked and kneeling, cock a soft, flushed scarlet where it stands half-hard between his legs, whole body patchworked in scars and marks, white hair wavy and untamed. And then he looks at her, dark hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of the finest silk dresses in Whitestone, resplendent with her hunter’s eyes and archer’s calloused, strong hands. He likes it, he thinks, though he cannot say. He likes seeing himself collared and coming at her beck and call. Likes seeing her in control of him, likes the contrast of her finery and his debasement. He likes being hers. There’s something stirring about it in his chest, something that drives him to bend and press soft, clumsy kisses to the tips of her shoes. “Oh, darling,” she says, and kneels to pull him into her embrace instead. He doesn’t understand the words, but he knows them intimately, and he kisses her throat and her cheek wherever he can reach them from her arms.

As the days pass, full of leisure and the soft scratching of her pen, Percy settles happily into being hers. His stubble grows in, with time, and she gasps a little the first time it scratches against her thighs, the soft flesh of her folds. “What a treat,” she murmurs, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp. “You never let me feel you like this, pet. I feel _cheated_.” He just keeps working at her, licking away the nectar that blooms at his touch, suckling delicately at her clit, the scrape of his face a new, delightful sensation to accompany his soft, warm mouth. It’s different. It’s nice. She likes the way it makes her feel, like there’s something molten in her stomach, something burning at her thighs where his cheeks scratch her so gently, rub her tender skin raw. She likes the contrast of his gentle, guileless sweetness and the undeniable roughness of what he does to her. She likes that he tears her up a little.

She shaves him, though, after the first time she finds him pawing helplessly at his chin, the soft flesh under his jaw. He’s scratched small, bloody gashes into his neck, his face, and it breaks her heart. She pulls his hands, sticky fingers tipped with red, from his face, and whispers gently, “oh darling, oh Percy, please don’t. Please don’t.” He whimpers, shakes, looks at her with pleading eyes, and she heals him. She heals him over and over, until there’s not even a scar, because she’s supposed to care for him, she’s supposed to be gentle with him, and she’s _failed_.

It’s a show of trust, in a way, how still he stays with a knife to his throat. She’s seen him do this before, every other day, soap and lather, a bowl of water or a stream or even just what he can gather from a wine skin. He’s good at it, sure-handed and steady, and Vex isn’t sure she’ll be able to match him. Even though he’s never told her, she knows, in theory, why he does it. Why he never lets the snow-glitter of scruff get longer than the scrape of his nails, why even without his full mind he can’t stand it. She’s seen the last few portraits of his family, the ones the Briarwoods didn’t manage to get, and she couldn’t help but notice that his father has a thick, well-trimmed beard. Julius has one, too, even more close-cropped, but Percy resembles them enough that it must be awful for him. To look at himself and see their ghosts, to touch his face and feel someone else’s. She had hoped the Feeblemind would dull the memories a little, had subconsciously hoped she wouldn’t have to do this, but she does. She won’t let him hurt himself again. She won’t. It’s unbearable.

It’s nice soap that she chooses. They’re all nice, of course, Whitestone has fine pine soap, but she wants the best. Only the best. It lathers well, and when she rubs the foam over his face he relaxes, leans closer. “I’m sorry, darling,” she murmurs. “I promised I’d take care of you and I haven’t. I’ll do my best.” She knows he can’t answer, knows her words are lost on him, but it makes her feel less alone to say it anyway. She cleans the soap from her hands. She picks up the razor. He tilts his head away from her, exposes his throat. Her hand shakes. “Not like this darling,” she says, and tilts his face back so she can start on his cheeks.

It’s slow going, because she wants to get it right, wants to get his face as smooth as he does. She knows she won’t, but she has to try. The water is warm, when she starts, but it goes cold. The soap fills her nose and throat with pine pitch and regret, but he seems soothed by it. She forgets, sometimes, that he grew up here. This isn’t new to him.

It’s home.

The razor is dangerously sharp, and for a moment she’s nervous in hindsight that Percy has been almost slitting his own throat for years, but honestly it makes sense. Nobody ever said he was safety-conscious. It becomes almost soothing for her, too, the rhythmic pull and scrape and rinse of the razor, the reapplying of soap lather to missed spots, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes when the blade is angled against his skin just right. Vex tries not to enjoy it at first. She fails. By the end everything around them smells like the Parchwood, and his face is smooth, and Vex’s hands are red with cold from the water.

He kisses them with what she swears is gratitude.

Every few days, she leads him back to the bathroom and shaves down his pale, pretty stubble, and by the end of the month she’s almost good at it.

He settles in. He sleeps at the foot of her bed, happy just to be near her, to have the privilege of her hands on him. He eats from her hands at every meal, doing his best to be delicate, and when she asks he laps at the crumbs and cleans her palms and fingers with spit and devotion. When she writes letters, he sits between her knees, hands tentatively placed on the crossbar between the chair legs, lapping gently at her folds. Often she takes breaks, caressing the back of his head as he works her to a sweet, lazy orgasm. He suckles happily at her clit, eager always to bury his tongue in her, to please her as best he can. She always thanks him, praises him, pleased and loving.

He rarely seeks his own pleasure, and when he does he’s just as overcome as the first time, clumsily rutting against the floor or her bed. She encourages it each time, whispering sweet words he can’t tell apart and running a hand down his heated back. He pants and whines, jutting his hips into soft, thick sheets and moaning as she speaks happily to him, telling him how beautiful he is, how he deserves this for such dedication, for such fine service. The friction, the approval in her voice, the bone-deep need he feels all push him to the edge, and when he comes he whimpers, low and long. She cleans him gently with a soft rag and warm water, makes sure he drinks, eats well, stays healthy. Sometimes, when she’s feeling lonelier, missing his voice or his true, full presence, she’ll take him to her bed beside her, as an equal. Often, she’ll pin him on his back, soothe his memories of Ripley to nothing. She rides him, moaning, kissing him, though he can only respond ungracefully, calling him _Percy, Percy, Percy_ in a breathless voice. He almost recognizes it. He serves her, trying to match her pace, trying to do whatever he can for his lady. When she comes, she slips down his body and sucks at him, laves his shaft and kisses his scarred, pretty thighs until he spills, jerking, into her mouth. She always kisses him, after, and tells him she loves him, though he doesn’t know the words.

He loves her too, though he cannot say.

A month passes, and Pike and Keyleth often seek each other out, whispering in distant corridors and trying not to let slip to any of the others what Vex and Percy are doing. They wait, dreading a frantic message from Vex. One never comes, and it’s almost worse. They glance, separately, over the trees and hills to the faint column of smoke from the cottage in the Parchwood, hoping with heavy hearts that whatever madness has spurred Vex and Percy to this… experiment works out well for them.

When the thirty days are up and Trinket brings Vex’s letter to the doors of Castle Whitestone, Pike is far away. Vasselheim had called, and she had no choice but to go, so it’s Keyleth, prickly with mixed feelings, who makes the trip to cast Greater Restoration. The door is unlocked, and Keyleth makes her way through several rooms before she finds Percy and Vex curled up on a couch by a fire, languid and soft.

He lies in her lap, head resting at the crux of her thighs, lithe pale body riddled with harm and softened by care. He’s naked, and though she feels chilled at the reminder of how Ripley did things, she can see he’s untouched. From here, Keyleth can see the softness of him, just a little less hungry, a little less starved. His body rests, no longer primed for attack, docile and tame under Vex’s gentle hand. He looks happy. Peaceful. Part of her dislikes it, too used to seeing Percy tightly wound and half-feral, but most of her is cheered. He deserves this, she thinks, feeling a pang of regret for all the fuss she’d given Vex. He deserves_ tenderness_. His eyes are shut, his face soft and hands curled childlike by his chest. Even with a thick band of leather around his throat, recognizably a collar, he looks healthy. He looks happy. He looks like Vex has spent the last month doing nothing but caring for him.

“Keyleth,” Vex greets her, smiling, even as her hand cards through Percy’s silk-thin hair. It looks softer, less brittle. Even his face is sweeter, those dark circles under his eyes all but gone. “It’s time, then?”

“Yeah,” she says, still more than a little surprised at Percy’s easy slumber. “Is he... it’s all okay?”

“Yes,” Vex nods. “More than okay. He’s been so... it worked.” She says, smiling up at Keyleth. “It worked.” Keyleth nods back, a faint smile crossing her face.

“So... are we going to get him dressed, or?” It’s a joke, of course, but Vex laughs.

“Oh,” she says, a soft wistfulness entering her face. “No, he won’t mind.” She plucks a worn blanket from the back of the couch and lays it gently over his body, covering him from shoulders to knees. Keyleth reaches out, hands radiating healing energy, and undoes her own Feeblemind. They can both feel when the charm snaps, because Percy blinks awake slowly, makes a soft whimpering sound, and asks, with a rusted voice, “Is everything alright?” Keyleth laughs, nods.

“It’s fine on our end. Are you alright?” He still looks a little hazy, a little sleep-drunk, but there’s a consciousness that’s been missing from his eyes and a sharp intellect very suddenly back in his head and taking up so much space. He nods, slowly.

“I’m alright.”

“Are you certain, darling?” Vex asks, pushing his hair from his eyes. He looks up at her, goes bright pink, and looks down again.

“I- yes.” He clears his throat, becomes a little less pink. “I’m more than alright, dear. I-“ he hesitates, still not looking her in the eye. “Thank you. Keyleth. And thank you, Vex.” He pulls the blanket a little more tightly around him.

It’s not the nudity, exactly. They’ve all seen each other at least half-naked. It’s the nature of life on the road and of being in various states of distress together. He’s seen Vax naked almost more times than he’s seen Vex, and he and Vex are actually in some kind of relationship. It’s not the nudity that bothers Percy. He’s fine enough in the looks department. He’s got nothing but scars to be ashamed of. It’s the shift in tone, in mood. He’s spent the last thirty days in Vex’s care- a thing which Keyleth has made clear she views as suspect at best- and to come out of it suddenly, to jump from being barely human to being Percival de Rolo is… it’s a lot. Even for him. Not helping is the fact that Keyleth clearly knows what he and Vex have been doing, which he would frankly prefer she didn’t.

There is something to be said, he feels, for secrets. He likes this better as a secret. He likes to think that he and Vex are the only ones who know, that their month-long sabbatical is inscrutable to everyone else. He likes to think that maybe this part of him, stripped bare to devotion and debasement, belongs only to her. And Ripley, of course, but it’s easy to push that away now. He had days of Ripley to fuck him up. He’s had a month of Vex to unfuck at least some of it. He feels that perhaps it’s made a difference, though he’d like to also keep that to himself. Some things are better between only two people.

“I- I know it’s terribly rude,” he says, still trying to blink away the haze. “But would you mind if- If Vex and I met you at the castle?” Keyleth looks at him, really looks, and Percy feels terribly transparent.

“Yeah,” she says, failing to disguise the sympathy in her voice entirely. It’s endearing, really. “Yeah, sure.” He feels her gaze still on him, and it’s strange how much mixed love and annoyance he has in him.

“Thank you, Keyleth,” he says again, seriously, and this time he does look her in the eye. “I understand this isn’t easy for you.” Now she’s the one off-center, and she half-laughs in surprise.

“I- you know what, we can talk about it later,” she says, throwing up her hands. “We can have a really long talk.”

“Undoubtedly,” Percy sighs. He slumps back on Vex’s lap, feeling so tired as Keyleth closes the door. “I mean it, darling,” he says quietly, Vex’s favored pet name heavy on his unfamiliar tongue. “Thank you.” Her hands stroke up and down his shoulder, pet gently at his hair.

“Thank _you_,” she says in return, leaning down to kiss his temple. “You were so good for me, darling.” He reaches up to twine his fingers with hers, curls them together and brings them to his mouth for a brief, cold kiss.

“You were good to _me_.”

“It’s what you deserved. I only hope I was what you needed.” He rolls onto his side, blanket skewing, revealing one long, pale leg and half his chest. He looks into her eyes and she blinks, tries not to feel too seen.

“It was more than I deserved,” he tells her in his usual grim fashion. “And more than I could ever have asked for.” Vex’s face softens, and he feels gratified at the faint flush on her cheeks.

“What was it like?” She asks abruptly. He smiles.

“Like being emptied out,” he tells her honestly. “Like someone reached into your head and took half of what was inside.”

“Oh, darling,” she begins and he shakes his head.

“It was nice, in a way. You made it easy.” He smiles up at her, still holding her hand to his chest. “I was happy with you. I was… it was peaceful. I was happy. I loved you. I still do!” He rushes to correct himself as she laughs. “I still do. But I- it was most of what I felt. Reactions to whatever you put before me and love for you.” It’s almost flattering, Vex thinks, but mostly her heart strains under the knowledge that his love for her _transcends consciousness_. It’s too much. She doesn’t deserve that. He reaches up to cup her face, fingers gently tracing the long, curved edge of one finely pointed ear. “Thank you,” he says again. “For letting me- for being this for me.”

“You weren’t the only one who enjoyed yourself,” she reminds him, leaning down to kiss him, enjoying the fact that he can finally really respond. “You were very good, pet. Very sweet to me.”

“We shouldn’t leave Keyleth waiting,” he says, as if that could distract her from the flush on his cheeks, his pink-tipped ears.

“No,” Vex agrees, smiling. He clears his throat, still naked but for a blanket and a collar. “Percy?” She asks, and he stops looking absently for his glasses.

“Yes, dear?”

“I love you so much.” He looks up at her, something devastating in his face.

“I love you, Vex,” he says, throat thick with something she can’t name. “More than you could ever know.” He looks down. “Thank you.” She thinks maybe he means for the last month, or for not leaving, or for loving him, or for a thousand other things. She’s not sure she’ll ever know.

And that was alright with her. Sometimes love is letting someone keep their secrets. Sometimes love is feeding them from your hand and holding them to your chest and letting them engage in extremely dangerous therapeutic techniques.

“You’re welcome, darling,” she says, and kisses his temple again.

**Author's Note:**

> Rape/non-con: mostly mentioned, described fairly vaguely but in some detail, mostly to provide context and contrast to how Vex wants things done. 
> 
> Dubious consent: the entire scenario relies on putting Percy in a state of near-inability to consent. He does consent, both beforehand and during, but the edges are still a little bit blurred contextually.
> 
> Self-harm: at one point Percy, still under the influence of Feeblemind, claws at his face and bleeds. Not described in too much detail but y’know. Just in case.
> 
> Also I want to add that me writing in that Keyleth is a judgy little disagreeing Druid is not me bashing Keyleth; I love her dearly. It’s just that she would look at this and go “that’s fucked up” and that’s valid, tbh. This whole scenario is not her style, really, but it strikes me as the kind of shit Vex and Percy would absolutely do.


End file.
